<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>five times joseph liebgott wasn't invited to david webster's apartment by redfuryy</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23312830">five times joseph liebgott wasn't invited to david webster's apartment</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfuryy/pseuds/redfuryy'>redfuryy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Band of Brothers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, this is fluffy nonsense tbh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:54:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,746</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23312830</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfuryy/pseuds/redfuryy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>and the one time he was.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster, Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi all, hope you like the beginning of this six part series &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The shower, for once, is actually putting out hot water. David’s only had to bang on the pipes half a dozen times to get them to stop making weird noises. He steps into the shower, letting the water encapsulate him in warmth. It has been a really good day, all things considered. He’s even managed to finish his brief, finally incorporating the scathing comments from his curmudgeonly old professor. Despite the uncertainty of knowing how well his brief is going to fare against hundreds of his overly competitive peers, he’s actually feeling pretty good about the whole thing. He’s done the best he can, anyways. </p><p>The water soothes muscles that have been aching from hours spent over the computer, clanging away. David pauses and lets the water run into his eyes, wondering why the bathroom is so silent when he realizes-- he’s forgotten his podcast! He shakes the water from his hand, lazily, before sticking an arm out the side of the shower curtain, fumbling for his phone. He manages to navigate to the Podcast app with soap half obscuring his vision, and settles on something about peace talks in Afghanistan. The volume is as high as it can go, which is just as well, as the pipes have started making clanging sounds again.</p><p>David steps back into the shower, humming along to the comforting sound of a radio voice ( always smooth, even if the world is collapsing ). He picks up something about negotiations with the Taliban, but his mind is really elsewhere. At first, he’s thinking about his brief, and how he’s never encountered a piece of writing so intentionally devoid of any soul or expression. His English degree seems completely worthless in a world where adjectives are practically a sin. But David isn’t prepared to litigate the issue of whether or not he should have ever gone to law school in the shower-- not today, anyways.  Instead, his mind is inching towards thoughts of one of his classmates…. </p><p>David doesn’t know his full name. Instead, his thoughts are encircling the image of a fellow student he only knows by his last name: Grant. (David found the fact that law school professors only refer to their students by their last names as militaristic and rigid at first, but he’s grown to kind of like it. It’s almost like being in a strange, intellectual army.) Grant sits two rows in front of David (“Webster,” really). At first, David didn’t pay much attention to the back of his head (dark brown hair-- usually browsing ESPN. Nothing remarkable). But one day, during a particularly dull lecture on the concept of consideration in contracts, Grant turned his head round and trained his eyes (oh, his deep blue eyes) on Webster, offering him an eye roll in solidarity of their suffering.  As he recalls it later, David managed to smile back before he turned a violent shade of red. So far, so good. And everything would have turned out fine, if David hadn’t blurted out a squeaky, “hello” in the middle of the lecture, much louder than intended. At this, David feels the special kind of second hand embarrassment that you experience when you remember the last stupid thing you’ve done, and cringes. The professor wheeled on his heels to stare at David, and Grant let out a short laugh (At him? With him?) before returning to his computer screen to read some more about baseball.</p><p>Fuck. </p><p>David groans to himself, stepping back and forth in the shower. The memory burns, but the image of Grant’s deep, beautiful smile has burned a memorable hole in his mind. David can’t help but imagine what Grant’s eyes would like, trained on him and only him, in the moment before they kissed. . . </p><p>BANG. BANG. BANG. </p><p>A loud knock. Two loud knocks. Three overly loud knocks on the door of the apartment. David groans; his dick has gone completely limp in his hand.</p><p>At first, he waits for his roommate, Lewis Nixon to answer the door. Nixon is the type of guy to have someone knocking at his door at every hour. His propensity for alcohol has made him a hit amongst the other law students, all who imbibe generously. It doesn’t surprise him that the knocking continues -- Nixon’s usually passed out on the couch over his laptop -- but after a while, the incessant noise starts to irritate him. He groans, shutting off the wonky shower before drying himself briefly. He wraps the towel around his waist and makes his way towards the door, cursing slightly at the amount of water he’s dripping behind him on the floor.</p><p>The knocking has only grown louder, and David wonders if this is another scorned lover situation (David has turned away encountered angry women at the door before, on Nixon’s cowardly instruction). He pounds up to the door, grabbing hold of the knob for what will be the tremendous effort of wrenching the jammed door from its frame. It takes him a second of good effort to pull the door free and another second to inwardly curse New York City. </p><p>“Joe…..?”</p><p>Dark eyes flash up to meet David’s. The figure in the doorway does not pause before stepping through the threshold, brushing across David’s shoulder as he makes his way into the cramped apartment. </p><p>“What the fuck are you listening to?”</p><p>“What?” David responds, only to notice that his podcast continues to drone on in the background. </p><p>“NPR? Is it NPR?”</p><p>David crosses his arms automatically, prepared to stand off against the intruder. “No, it’s not NPR. It’s a podcast.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Web.  Could you be more of a stereotype?” the man groans, and when David’s retelling this story to Nixon later, he makes a big flourish of what Joe Liebgott does next, because he enters the kitchen and opens the fucking refrigerator door.  (“Can you believe that, Nix?”) </p><p>“You got any beer?” Joe calls out, and David whirls around to face him. </p><p>“No-- I’m trying not to drink. Doing a whole thirty day thing,” David replies, and Joseph chortles. </p><p>David can’t remember the first time he actually met Joe. Somehow, he’s been a staple of the apartment building ever since he moved in about a month ago. Their first encounter really wasn’t off to a great start. David encountered him in the tiny, tired mailroom, going through mail that clearly didn’t belong to him. “ Sheesh, my mistake.” Joe pled innocent, and perhaps David was a little too quick to assume and yell nasty words at him, but damn if the guy didn’t have a malicious look about him. David’s reminded of a guy from a gangster movie, minus about twenty pounds of muscle.</p><p>He doesn’t know how, but he soon learns that Joe is a cab driver. Joe is a cab driver that fucking hates Uber -- he’s railing about it in David’s ear almost the second they met, telling him that he’s gotta promise not to ride using those “cocksucking apps.” He learns two simultaneously hilarious facts when Joe’s phone goes off in the lobby.  One, that he still has a ringtone in 2020 and two, that he still listens to ska. There are a multitude of other facts that Joe won’t let David forget: that San Francisco is the superior City; that the Giants baseball team are going to win the World Series this year; and that lemon is the worst ice cream flavor. </p><p>So maybe, the fact of the matter is, he isn’t entirely surprised to find Joe on his doorstep. </p><p>“You and everyone in this City. Don’t know why I bother. Don’t tell me you’re going vegetarian, too?” Joe quips, digging through the fridge like a careful scavenger. </p><p>“Um--- do you think you could--- what are you doing here?” David finally responds appropriately to the situation-- he shouldn’t let strangers just waltz into his apartment, unannounced. He could get murdered, or something. He nods. That is exactly what Joe is--- a stranger. </p><p>“You are so fucking loud, you know that?” Joe responds, pulling a carton of Chinese takeout from the fridge before scurrying through drawers to find a fork. “I could hear those two white guys lecturing about war like they’ve ever left the Upper East Side. Like they’ve been there, or something.”</p><p>Joe is sensitive about war. Or, perhaps, sensitive is the wrong word. David thinks that since Joe has served, he’s perfectly entitled to his opinions.</p><p>“I agree. This deal could really make a difference in the lives of Afghanis. I don’t see what the drawbacks are of at least giving peace a chance,” David responds.</p><p>When Joe shakes his head and laughs at him, David never knows how to feel. Sometimes, when Joe is laughing, he feels like a little kid being scolded by an older big brother. Sometimes, Joe is laughing, and it’s a kind laugh. And soon, David can’t help but find himself joining in. And sometimes, they sit like that until they’re both keeled over laughing.</p><p>“Did you really come all the way over here to talk to me about war? Because you really ought to save that conversation for when Nix gets home… he wouldn’t want to miss it.” </p><p>“Nah-- just wanted to tell you to keep your shit down, alright?” Joe quips, tearing into the Chinese food. “Didn’t expect to see you in this outfit, though.” </p><p>David is suddenly painfully aware that his body is almost uncovered, save for an increasingly loose towel across his nether regions. The usual insecurities pop into his head, and he folds his arms and covers his chest. Joe inches a step forward, and David wonders whether they’d been standing so close this entire time. </p><p>Just then, Lewis Nixon bursts through the front door, clearly hammered out of his mind. He takes one look up at David and Joe and groans.</p><p>“Good to see you, Lew,” Joe quips. David isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks he catches Joe staring at him out of the corner of his eye.</p><p>“You too….” he acknowledges with a slur, looking across the room from David’s half nude body to Joe’s stolen chinese food.  “Is that mine….?”</p><p>Joe shrugs, looking down at the box then back at Lewis. “I was just leaving.  Tell David here to take care of himself, alright?” Joe smirks, patting David on the back. Spikes of something hot and fiery and maybe even filthy race down David’s legs and into his toes.</p><p>“Wait---” he’s more breathless than he needs to be.</p><p>“No, I’d better go,” Joe grins, and he reaches across the distance between them to give David a kiss on the cheek that burns instantly before he turns and walks out the front door, just as unexpected and unannounced as he entered.</p><p>“Shit,” Lewis groans, stumbling into the small space that is supposedly a hallway, according to the Internet posting, but really is something more of a two foot stretch of dirty carpet. “What the fuck was that about?”</p><p>“Like I know,” David shakes his head. “Let’s get you sitting down with some water.”</p><p>Lewis is in no position to disagree. He’s relying now on the wall for his support, and his face has taken on a glazed expression. David wonders how this man can go from looking so young to looking so old in a matter of glasses of whiskey. He supports his weight the best he can as he maneuvers him to the couch in the center of their sparse living room.</p><p>“Some night, huh?” Lewis waxes, and collapses face down on the couch. David follows, taking a seat next to him.</p><p>“Didn’t get up to much here. Just working on my brief. Did you know that the Supreme Court didn’t find anti-sodomy laws unconstitutional until 2003?”</p><p>“What? Really?” Lewis asks, but he’s somehow found his phone and is paging through his texts and isn’t paying much attention.  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”</p><p>“And even then, it was only on substantive due process grounds, which are kind of bullshit, in my opinion…” David continues, scratching his nose.</p><p>“Oh, fuck. Can you shut up and help me for a moment?” </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>Lewis groans, tossing his phone across the couch in his direction. David picks it up and opens it. On the screen, there’s a single text-- from Dick Winters.  </p><p>“Oh, not him again. I thought I told you to give it up --- this guy is totally straight.” David shakes his head, not even bothering to read the text.</p><p>“Tonight was different, I swear. It was just me and him and we talked for hours. Did you know he was a champion wrestler in high school?” Lewis continues, almost breathless, despite his apparent inebriation.</p><p>David shakes his head and looks down, continuing to read the text.  “Hope u made it home safe. X Dick.” David shakes his head and laughs. “Who signs their texts, Nixon?”</p><p>“I know, I know. That’s what makes him so cute. He’s so… sincere!” Nixon moans, burying his head in the pillow.  “You’ve gotta help me respond.”</p><p>David shrugs. It’s not as though he’s particularly successful in his own personal life. The closest he’s gotten to getting laid in weeks was a Tinder conversation that ended once the guy surreptitiously revealed he was a Trump supporter.        </p><p>“Uh, okay.  Say you had a fun time, or something. No. Say you want to see him again! Ask him on a date!” David relays, though he’s never been so bold in his own dating life.</p><p>Nixon groans, stealing the phone back from David. “I can’t do that. You’re right, what if he’s straight? What if he’s offended by the whole thing?”</p><p>“If he’s offended by being asked out by a guy in the year 2020, he’s a fucking asshole, Lew. Here. Give me the phone.”</p><p>Lewis tosses him the phone before burying his face against a pillow. David begins to type: Had a fun time tonight. Want to do it again sometime? Say, next Friday?</p><p>David grabs Lewis’ arm, forcing him to take a look at the text.  “See?”  Lewis groans but nods. David presses send.</p><p>It isn’t until the next morning that they receive a response. David is in the kitchen, frying up some eggs for a very hungover Lewis. He’s humming to himself, wondering whether or not Liebgott will somehow find even this too loud, when he hears a screeching noise from the other room.</p><p>“He replied! He replied!” Lewis calls out from the other room. David nearly drops the pan to the floor, it’s so loud.  </p><p>“Jesus Christ. What did he say?” David asks, entering the living room from the small alcove of a kitchen.</p><p>Lewis peers up at him sheepishly, and he looks boyish and naive despite the stench of alcohol on him. “Drinks, next Wednesday.” </p><p>The sound of their cheers send Liebgott upstairs pounding on the door, yet again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for all the wonderful feedback !! I love you all !</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>To be perfectly frank, Lewis Nixon hasn’t been on a proper date in years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not really his thing, honestly. He isn’t the type to lie about it-- he’s usually really only interested in getting one thing from other people, and going on dates tends to send the message that he might actually be interested in keeping them around long enough to learn their full name. He doesn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea, so whenever the cute girl in his Property class asks him out for coffee, he declines.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he spends his time at a dank, dark bar on the Upper West Side, near school, called the West End Lounge. The West End Lounge probably shouldn’t be in operation, as they haven’t renewed their liquor license since 2011. But somehow, the mangy bar has enough loyal patrons to keep it alive and serving alcohol in dirty glasses to patrons til 4am nearly every night.  Lewis is no exception. Another benefit of the bar is that it is either a straight bar or a gay bar, depending on who you talk to. For the past couple of weeks, Nixon has been talking to a woman who has performed on Broadway several times and who wears way too much perfume. They’ve got plans to hang out (well, fuck) the day after Lewis gets his ‘yes’ text from Dick Winters. He cancels their plans immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he spends the next few days preparing for his date.  What sort of shirt should he wear? Is Winters the type to fall for a guy in plaid? Should he go for the cool and bored academic look? Or should he let his true colors fly and not shave for a week? He tries to ask David, but he’s bickering over the telephone to Liebgott about the latest Trump policy. He finally settles on an expensive shirt from his mother that he’s never worn and some nice pants. He is confident enough in his reflection, save the giant, sunken sheets of purple and gray beneath his eyes. He blames his lack of sleep on school, but he can really blame his saggy eyes on his propensity to drink by himself into the early hours of the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because this is New York, he doesn’t pick Dick up in a car at 8pm. Instead, they meet up at a carefully selected bar in Midtown, because Lewis doesn’t want to make Dick travel all the way up to Morningside Heights. Dick offered, of course. Dick always offers. He’s got a way of knowing what other people need before they even ask for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He enters the bar, walking past a throng of people (why didn’t he pick somewhere more secluded?) to get to the back, where Dick is waiting. His red hair is especially reflective in the light, and Lewis instantly finds this inexplicably alluring. He licks his lips, takes a deep breath, and slides into his seat, as casually as he can muster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, I see you found the place okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lewis keeps telling him that the cure to heartbreak is alcohol. David doesn’t necessarily agree with this philosophy, but he’s not one to stand in the way of one of Lewis’ binges. No one is, really. For all the money Lewis seems to have, no one from his family ever comes to check on him or to send him to the treatment he probably desperately needs. The cure to heartbreak is alcohol and beautiful women, Lewis says to him again. David reminds him somehow, they barely seem to know any women. Lewis reluctantly agrees, and invites just about everyone they know to a party, anyways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By now, David’s somehow managed to obtain Chuck Grant’s number. He doesn’t know how it happens, exactly. He’s sitting behind him in class after the Professor makes a recommendation that they form study groups for the coming exam period. He doesn’t know where the boldness comes from, but he leans forward and nonchalantly asks for Chuck’s number, as though he’s ordering food at a restaurant. Chuck responds in an equally bored manner, and David manages to put together a study group that encompasses several of their classmates, including George Luz, Don Malarkey, Floyd Talbert, and Skinny Sisk. They’ve been meeting on the regular for a couple of weeks and have managed to form some sort of study coalition. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So of course, the coalition is all invited to the party, and Nixon has managed to round up some other students in the other section of the law school class, including Joye Toy, Bill Guarnere, and Johnny Martin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By half past eleven, the apartment is filled to the brim. Delivery pizza has long since been devoured, and the guys are taking shots and toasting to the special Hell that is the law school. David is huddled in the back, checking his text messages, because Chuck hasn’t arrived yet and he’s nervous. Lewis pops in over his shoulder, boozed and broken, before he can manage to slip away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t even drink,” Lewis states, flatly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought the guy to a bar, and he doesn’t even drink.  Should have known right then…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lewis, what are you talking about?” David replies, wondering why the fuck Lewis thinks this corner is an appropriate place for a conversation about his love life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dick.  Fuck. The guy’s name is Dick, for Christ’s sake. What kind of name is that?” Nixon rails before taking a giant gulp of the glass of whiskey in his hand, polishing it off entirely.  “Wait here,” he begins to walk away, “I need another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Woah, hey,” David puts out an arm to stop him. “Why don’t you just relax for a moment, okay?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t. He’s the only thing on my mind and it’s driving me fucking crazy. How could he have not </span>
  <em>
    <span>known</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was a date. I’d been flirting with him for weeks!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David shrugs. Personally, he agrees that the whole thing is pretty surprising. Lewis has never really been subtle at flirting. David found that out the first night they were roommates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, can you believe the guy? I sit there and make an ass of myself, trying to drink only a couple of glasses of wine so this… Quaker doesn’t think I’m some sort of alcoholic,” he rants, without a hint of shame, “and the guy says to me at the end… can you believe what he says to me?”  David takes a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “He says….</span>
  <em>
    <span> I’m glad we’re friends, Lew.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fucking A.” Lewis shakes his head.  “I really can’t believe I read the signs so wrong….”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David really </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel sorry for Lewis. He’s never even heard his friend </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk</span>
  </em>
  <span> about having feelings for someone before, let alone get </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> upset over someone. But he’s heard this speech about a dozen times over the past twelve hours, and all he wants to do is see if Chuck is here yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know why I even bother.” Lewis sighs, and darts off to get another drink before David can stop him. Secretly relieved, David rejoins the party, which has congregated around the kitchen for a round of shots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A toast! To the meanest cold-caller this side of the Mississippi…. To the jackass that made Christenson cry after he forgot a holding of a case…. To Sobel!” shouts Luz, and the group collectively downs vodka in mismatched shot glasses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is when the doorbell rings. David’s ears turn a bright shade of red. Only one of the people invited hasn’t arrived yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lewis beats him to the door, and in steps Liebgott, followed by Chuck Grant. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I told you to keep the fucking noise down,</span>
  <em>
    <span> Mr. Lawyer.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” It’s uncanny how quickly Joe’s eyes settle on David. David makes his way through the crowd, which has all turned and is watching them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a Friday night, Liebgott. Relax.” David quips, but really, his eyes are focused on Chuck. Chuck is looking back and forth between them, and his eyes light up as though he’s just had a strange epiphany. “You two know each other?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sure. Met Grant in the hallway about twenty minutes ago. He’s a real good guy,” Liebgott responds, flashing his white smile in David’s direction.  David feels his stomach plummet. For some reason, Chuck getting along with Liebgott doesn’t sit well with him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> getting along with Liebgott doesn’t sit well with him, frankly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t believe you know this guy,” Chuck grabs hold of Liebgott’s arm, as though they’re best of friends, before speaking to David directly.  “He’s fucking amazing. Do you know about all the shit he did while serving? Incredible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, it’s not all that great,” Liebgott responds, wrapping an arm around Chuck’s back.  “I’m just glad </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>around here still smokes. I feel like the devil every time I light up around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No kidding. I get the dirtiest looks at school.” Chuck responds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David inwardly groans. Chuck and Liebgott are quickly entwined in their own conversation, and there doesn’t seem to be much room for him. He can’t believe the </span>
  <em>
    <span>nerve </span>
  </em>
  <span>of Liebgott. It’s one thing to show up unannounced to his apartment most days of the week. It’s another thing entirely to invite himself to the party and commandeer his guests. Well, one guest in particular. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t mind me. I’ll just---” he says, a little louder than necessary. But both men accidentally ignore him, engrossed in their conversation. He inwardly sighs before retreating back into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>Friends. </em></span>
  <span>Can you believe that? He said, “I’m so glad we’re friends, Lew!”"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lewis is standing on the kitchen table, regaling the group of students with his Woesome Tale of Winters. Pretty much everyone is mesmerized by the drunk spectacle, but David can’t be bothered. He sighs outwardly this time, before darting out of the party and into his room.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>David smokes some weed and passes out for a couple of hours, despite the raging party going on around him. He wakes up around four in the morning and instantly regrets having fallen asleep. He groans, shifting back and forth in his unmade bed, still wearing last night’s clothes. He’s not quite hungover, but he’s thirsty, so he makes his way out of his bedroom, in search of a glass of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kitchen is littered with the remains of the previous night. Shot glasses of various shapes and sizes coat the counter, and he counts no fewer than five empty bottles of </span>
  <em>
    <span>expensive</span>
  </em>
  <span> vodka (thanks, Lew) completely finished. There are a few unidentified stains on the tile, but David decides he’ll deal with those later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moving from the kitchen, he notices a lump on the couch in the living room, rising and falling slightly along with the muffled sounds of breathing under the blanket. David shakes his head, but isn’t entirely surprised that a guest hasn’t made it home. He moves towards the lump, gently shaking the occupant with his hand on the cheap polyester.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David’s stomach drops, then rises again. It’s Chuck. It’s Chuck under the blanket.  But it’s not just Chuck.  Another figure is curled up next to him, holding him in what can only be described as an </span>
  <em>
    <span>embrace.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Fucking Liebgott. Fucking asshole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out,” David barks, before he can stop himself. Before he can calmly, rationally assess the situation. Before he realizes he sounds like a complete asshole himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Chuck responds, dragging the sleep out of his eyes.  Joe barely stirs. When he finally opens his dark, impenetrable eyes, a cold, hard gaze is directed straight at David. This incenses him even more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said, GET OUT!” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>David has never ordered anyone around in his life, but it appears to be effective. Both parties free themselves of the blanket, sleepily extracting themselves from whatever they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing</span>
  </em>
  <span> under there before getting caught. David’s stomach turns. He doesn’t really want to think about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeesh, Webster. Got a bad hangover or something?” Liebgott quips, predictably making the situation worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up. And leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chuck and Joe send him identical glares. Usually, David is timid enough that such a response would send him running with his tail between his legs. But his fists are clenched, and he stomps over to the door, wrenching it from its squeaking frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of the men collect their belongings in haste. Joe has to pause to pull on his pants over his underwear, and a bitter, horrible taste like bile collects in David’s mouth. He clears his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great party, Web. Let me know when the next one is,” Liebgott flashes him one last grin, and the pair (ugh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pair</span>
  </em>
  <span>) leave side by side, leaving David to the swirling flames that constitute his thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On cue, Lewis stumbles into the room, presumably awakened by the noise. He doesn’t ask any questions. Instead, he dives onto the couch, burying his head against the pillows and moaning softly to himself.  It doesn’t take long for David to dive on top of him, curling up beside his friend and inhaling his scent (laundry detergent and old whiskey). He hates to admit it, but a small tear has formed and curled up around his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David doesn’t understand why he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>upset. It’s not as though Chuck is his boyfriend. It’s not as though he’s in charge of him. He doesn’t get to dictate whether or not he wants to crash on a random person’s couch with an </span>
  <em>
    <span>annoying</span>
  </em>
  <span> cabbie or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never throwing a party again, Lew.”  Lewis feels warm and safe underneath him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lewis just sighs and presses his head into David’s shirt, inhaling deeply. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>